


A Meal Among Friends

by DizzyChickStar



Category: ZNation - Fandom
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, Heroine's Journey, Limbo, Multi, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyChickStar/pseuds/DizzyChickStar
Summary: Instead of splitting off in different directions immediately, Murphy asks everyone to double back to Limbo with him first. He has something thoughtful to share with the now reunited group in the spirit of their hard-won goodwill, and mutual, if sometimes grudging, respect.   Above all, he is especially anxious to impress Warren.





	A Meal Among Friends

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written for a fandom in a while. There are still stories in my heart and head for a fandom that...whew, filled me with a dread for a while now, but I suppose I should just, “temper expectations” and shoulder on. 
> 
> That said, the last episode of ZNation bolstered my writing muse and the writing here inspired me too, as against my will and all sense:), I am now riding on the good ship Warphy.

“Hey guys, no big, but it’s honestly going to work out better for me and these Walker would-be adoptees if we mosey on back to my place—“ Murphy shrugged his studded red shoulders up and down, signaling the opposite of his professed lack of care. 

The sole living human of the family slouched forward just then, removing his grimy hat, slapping it to his chest and said, effectively cutting Murphy off, “is there something I can do to help? I mean...ah, innit best that your friends get on the road to find that special flour as soon as...” His voice broke before he finished his thought, and he lowered his eyes as Murphy glared at him, arched eyebrows telegraphing his annoyance. “Yeah, the road to flour is paved with good intentions and all, but if I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it. Which I’d never do.” Ignoring the man’s confused expression and avoiding Warren’s “tsk, tsk,” Murphy made his case, punctuating his points with dramatic arm flairs and equally dramatic pauses, particularly more so when he noticed half of his audience had stopped listening to compare their recent battle scars and missing body parts. 

Finally winding on down, Murphy mumbled that they’d really only stayed a very short while in Limbo after all, his guilt laced diatribe no match for even the most highly skilled of martyred mothers. At that, he squeezed his eyes shut but thought shedding a tear might be a little overkill.  
“Murphy,” Warren deadpanned, “How you do go on...and on...” And although her tone sounded flat, her dark eyes reflected her affection for the red-skinned man. She flashed white teeth and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, motioning the group over to deliberate. George gave a non-committal half smile while 10K and Addy exchanged sighs and side eye. Doc shifted from one foot to the other, shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked to Warren. “What say you, Chief? I’m not getting any younger.” 

Whether the group bought his eventually reasonable-enough sounding story about making sure he had sufficient ammo for his solid though Blend-led defense of Limbo is neither here nor there, but Warren, listening with her heart, rather than her head perhaps, directed the group to pack up their vehicles, escorting Murphy and the Biscuit Baking Bunch along the road back to Limbo, Murphy’s psychedelic post-apocalyptic playground. 

The return trip was uneventful in total zee and human kills, a blessing, cause all too often a raving mass of flesh eating monsters loomed around the bend. Any moment to grab a chance to breathe, let alone think, was downright miraculous. They’d spent one night camped near their route, and taking turns at lookout (Murphy even did so without too much complaining), kept the whole group safe from puppies and kittens and Talker attacks. The second night the group was forced to camp further from their direct route—sparse trees offering little to no defense informed this decision, zees weren’t the only threats out there after all—and Addy and Warren were paired as lookouts this time. Outside the tin shed, their home that night, Addy, burgundy waves covering half her pretty face, sank into a squat, her matching zee whacker helping keep her balance. She tucked her jacket into the top of her jeans to choke out the wind. 

The air that night smelled less like burnt chemical rubber chicken and more like burnt chemical rubber tofu, but to look up at the sky, you could forget a thing like that. Though she’d actually forgotten what little she had known about constellations—Mack had been nuts about them—she didn’t have to know much to appreciate the one twinkling star come out already to meet her that evening. And something about that one star, its singleness, its something otherness set against the dusky night made her think of an old song—-something “pale moonlight...someone’s thinking of me tonight.” And so she thought of her someone, her Lucy, child and friend all at once. And the tears made their way down her face then, loosing sadness and anger and regret. Warren, legs long and strong in tight jeans, made little sound stepping up beside her. She also slid down into a crouch, but Warren threw her arms around Addy too, keeping one hand on the hilt of her weapon. “If I’m not angry, I’m just sad,” Addy said, getting right down to it. “And I can’t see past that. I know he’s different—she was his daughter, for Chrissakes; I actually do. But I’m not different.” 

“No one’s asking you to be anyone other than Addy. We love you as you are, everyday and twice on zee days,” Warren said, her husky voice gone smooth. 

“Uh huh, I think you believe that of everyone, Warren, and that’s a sweet and precious thing. Here in the middle of all this crap. Just be careful. There’s such a thing as too close.”

Then the wind blew noisily and they both heard a familiar sounding rustle from somewhere closer to the camp then they’d like. Both women jumped to their feet. “The only thing I have to fear out here is the dead and Doc’s stinky zee weed,” Warren countered, snapping the collar of her jacket. She pulled out her machete and lead the way forward. 

“Yeah, but the dead ain’t exactly dead anymore. Who the hell knows where it all ends?” Addy said, her footsteps indistinct in the dark. 

The group cycled though its pairings regularly—Warren and George both felt it strengthened all the group’s members to trust and rely on each other rather than leaning on just one person. Doc respected this rationale, though he and 10K always felt mutual relief when they were paired together. If pressed, Murphy would admit he felt equally safe with any person in the group; he also recognized that most of them had grown to trust him to watch their backs as well. Something like self-satisfaction settled deep in his gut once he’d realized this. Addy was still trying to synch herself back with the group, though her conflicting feelings of grief and guilt left her tense and broody with any member of the group, less so however with Warren—there was kinship in the kind of loss they were both still mourning. Like they were VIPs at some sad party where Murphy wasn’t on the list and Addy was both host and bouncer.  
—————————————————————————  
“Ooh, wee, can’t you feel it in the air? We are almost there,” Murphy drawled. With Limbo in sight and sound (You’d think they might select less heart thumping, zee attracting house music), his steps were already more commanding, his strides longer and more sure. And as the group walked their motorbikes and ATVs up the path ahead, Warren pretended to ignore the little thrill heating her belly at the sight of Murphy clearly back in his element. Looking back and grinning madly at her, she’d almost swear he could read her thoughts. 

Fingers snapping, high five happening, and eager cheeks (both) slapping, Murphy put out an energy that the patrons and Limbo waitstaff just could not get enough of. He navigated the crowds like a game changing, table shaking newcomer politician—but she knew it was no act. And it was honestly affecting. His mojo was apparently contagious too as Doc once again tried to abandon the group to follow a tall young woman whose curly hair and full lips brought to mind the pre-apocalypse actress Eartha Kitt. She bowed low before Murphy and hissed, “The Crimson King of Cra-Z is back. You Casanova Cretin, who’s your friend?” Doc’s eyes fairly rolled to the back of his head. It had been a long...time. 

“Not yet, ole buddy, not yet,” Murphy said, dragging Doc by the beard a little, as he continued to walk forwards and sometimes backwards, crossing the casino. Doc choked back a sob as “Eartha” winked once she passed them again, her red feathers trailing out from the bottom seam of her body suit. 10K patted his back. “Uh, we’ll be back. You’ll see.” 

Bright lights blinked bizarre patterns and patrons chugged “Murphy Mocktails” in red plastic cups all around then. “All in good time...for a long time—right now, it’s time to celebrate the holiday,” Murphy said.  
“Wait a minute,” Warren almost choked as they entered yet another room. “Holiday?” 

The neon signs and new themed casino games and attractions they’d encountered before suddenly made sense now-Hit the (Turkey) Head, Smote Zee John Smith, Smoke Some Plymouth Rocks, Zee Olde Corn Hoe Cake, and Poke-a-hantus. “Poke-a-hantus” featured two Talkers answering trivia questions and dares about early colonial America and Newmerica. A blonde dressed in a red nightie and powdered wig was leaking guts already. They hadn’t stayed to see just what else would get poked. “Poke my eyes out already,” Warren thought and groaned at herself.  
—————————————————————————  
Murphy looked around the table and grinned at them all. They’d now all had a good scrubbing and were playing along, some more or less willingly. Everyone was dressed in an amalgamation of early Pilgrim and Post-world chic. Starched collars and breeches and neon lace corsets with studs and buckles and strategically placed tassels. Warren sat with her head propped up on her fists, her dark curls spilling out over her collar while Addy checked out her cleavage in her spoon, clicking her tongue up against the roof of her mouth appreciatively. 10K grimaced at the way his high collar chafed, adjusting it with his hand, while Doc’s gray head shook to and fro, searching out his “Eartha,” his hat long gone and fallen behind his chair. George, her normally tousled hair now covered with a white linen cap, sat there patiently nodding at one of the Talker fellow guests who was missing most of his lower jaw. Her trademark high collar leather coat hung on the back of her chair. Handmade decor approximating stuffed turkeys and cornucopia and corn decked the tables while decent smelling vegetable stew and real cornbread sat on their plates. 

Murphy, in a red bedazzled doublet and matching ripped breeches, clapped his hands together and stood up, breaking up the low buzz of voices in the room. “Ja-George, Warren, the kid, Doc, Biscuit Walker randos, Hot Cyclops, and Hot Blend randos, Happy Thanksgiving.” His words were both a greeting and an introduction to the guests. 

He then bent his head low, cupping his hands over his plate and inhaled deeply, “But seriously though, people. Welcome to my bounty, my home.” Warren, who sat on his right, whispered hotly, “What in the freakiest of freakiness is all of this?”  
Undeterred, Murphy said, “Please, friends...” He stopped as 10K stood up. “This is stupid. I don’t want any parts of this. How do you know it’s Thanksgiving anyways...”

“Not to cut off your belated emo teen moment, Ten Thousand, but this isn’t about you. Or me for that matter. It’s about her, and it’s just a meal with friends. That’s all. No more, no less. I’m saying Thank. You. We don’t often take the moments we should to make the small moments count. Right, Roberta?”

Warren swallowed and took his hand. She leaned in and looked at him and the smile on her lips began in her dark eyes first. “Sure, Murphy. Whatever you’d like. It’s alright.” Watching this exchange, 10K sat down, flustered and confused. Addy shook her head and mouthed, “later.”

“Now, let us pray. Doc? Maybe you can make up for that time you killed all those nuns, really go for it, huh?” Murphy said. “Heads down, let’s all holds hands.”  
—————————————————————————The last thing Warren heard was a whispered, “Come go with me; I want to thank you properly.” She felt her insides lurch as she made mental contact with Murphy. Curious and a little nervous, she was doing this by choice. Not because of those damn dreams or that gods awful Reset—or even passively, like during her coma in Zona—when Murphy’d walked the halls of her mind and helped her to leave it. Though part of her had been content to stay. There he’d discovered that her strongest memory of home was tied into the holidays, specifically Thanksgiving, when her father’d originally proposed to her mother. So she knew, accuracy of calendars be damned, that this gesture was actually very sweet. 

Outside herself Warren was nodding attentively at the mostly brain dead, but handsome Walker to her left. Doc was still muttering prayers; most had begun nibbling at their plates. But inside Warren had returned to that green world she and Murphy’d once shared, when they’d first tested their blood connection. As she turned around, she saw those great green rolling hills and crisp air filled her grateful lungs. The silence, save the rustle of gentle breezes, wrapped her in calm. She felt him before she saw him, frenetic even in this heady, trippy space, though she could feel him holding himself back. And then he appeared. 

He was no longer red skinned but back to blue. Then light skinned and dark haired. Now white haired and red again and blue and dark haired once more as if he could not maintain one image as he crossed closer towards her, each step another Murphy exposed-Quasi Zombie, Messiah, Dictator, Man. Warren, taking this all in said, “I’m not asking you to. I’m not asking you to be anything other than what and who you are right now.” She felt a tear on her cheek then, but she wasn’t sure if it was hers or his. It didn’t matter. Like the fated kiss in an old fairy tale, her gentle words did their work. He grabbed her hand, his red skin covering the brown of her own. 

“I said, let us pray,” he started. And her eyes took in the fine picnic spread down in front of them. 

“But you don’t believe in anything.”

“But I do believe in you. I believe in your beauty like the sun that burns so devastatingly, in the steadfastness of the path you walk, righteous and mighty. You are the true savior willing to sacrifice yourself for me and this world again and again and again. Oh, shit.” At this, he slammed his palm against his head and continued, “and I, and I bow before you today and always, my life for yours. I never want to lose you. You have everything and all of it...if you want it.” He dropped to his knees, clad in all white. Her red knight almost prostrate before a fantasy bounty suitable for his dream world queen of zees. Savory turkey, sweet yams, collards and pies sat atop a checkered throw. The smells both appealed to and repelled her. 

Warren sucked in her breath, and backed up, almost tumbling forward in her long skirts. “What is this, Murphy? What are you doing?” She felt herself growing agitated, her heartbeat racing and blood pulsing. Murphy stood up quickly to steady her, holding her tightly to his chest. Like the savory smells, his declaration, if that is indeed what it was, both attracted and repelled her too and she pushed him back with a strong arm. 

“I could ask you the same, Lieutenant Roberta Warren. What do you want? Have you figured that out yet? Or am I just some guy?” He stood with his arms crossed, looking down at her. 

“Murphy, don’t do this. That isn’t fair. I don’t want to hurt you. I told you I love you, and I do, but I don’t know what that means right now. I do know I don’t want any kind of life in my head, no matter how good it feels.” She stepped forward and rubbed her thumb slowly down his cheek. “And it does feel good. But you feel you know me in ways I don’t know you yet. And while you’ve been in here,” she gestured to her head, “you haven’t been in here,” she finished, touching her hand to chest, “at least not long. And all of it, this connection or no, has to be real.”

“Silly Warren. What I’m offering is real.” He waved his hands away and the feast disappeared. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged. “But I will wait for you. Even though there’s slim pickings in this here apocalypse, particularly if you’re looking for a looker with all his working parts-I mean, good working parts,” he waggled his eyebrows and the tension between them broke with her soft laugh. “Until then, I will wait,” he said and pressed his finger to the side of her nose. She closed her eyes, replacing his finger with her own, and opening them came face to face with a table full of Murphy’s Thanksgiving guests, including the gang, staring at her. 

“Uh, you gotta little stew all over your face there, Warren,” George gestured, drawing large circles in the air in front of her face. Even the mostly brain dead Talker beside her threw her a look. “You okay, Chief?” Doc asked. Addy smirked knowingly, and grabbed the basket of cornbread, “She’s fine. At least she’s back,” she said, waving off the confused looks Doc and 10K wore with a big bite of bread. 

“Here let me,” Murphy said then. He leaned in close and wiped her face with a rag. “Until then,” he whispered. She nodded. 

“Alright, grunts, enough gawking, more grubbing. Less talking in general, everyone. More listening. To me. Happy Freaking Thanksgiving. Whose up for a toast?”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments and declarations of love-what do you think? 
> 
> This was supposed to a Drabble but I started writing it last night and into the morning. Hope you enjoyed and feel free to add more fic to Warphy and more Znation.


End file.
